𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐯. the shattered glass of our hearts.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

Disappointment is a feeling that sits in the bones. It never fully leaves, only buries itself beneath collagen and waits. Festers, until it has licked every joint and causes aches, builds in the chest until theres a heavy weight placed upon it, and the sharp pain in the ribs a sad sigh that leaves the lungs. It feels like stepping on shattered glass. Painful and undeserved, but that small, angered part buried deep within loves it. That heavy bearing that hangs the bones down, or the tasks that seem to take all the energy stored in the body and drains it; it's like an old friend — it's a craving, and there's an odd comfort in the sadness of rock bottom. She's certain she's begun to sink and even though disappointment is a feeling in the bones, she still believes she's been fated for it.

Her first indicator that this is in fact not Harry, is the slight warmth that itches against her skin. It's like a distant itch for the frigid waters she seems to submerge into when in his presence. The second is the oh he says in a voice thats just a tad deeper then Harry's. Not quite right, but also too close. It feels like a personal taunt from God. And the third is when he turns around. His height, hair and glasses all seem to scream 'this is Harry,' but the fault is in the fact that his eyes are blue. She doesn't know why that fact drops her heart straight through to her toes.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Lavinia says slowly backing away. Her hands shake at her side, she's on the verge of tears. "I thought you were someone else."

"I've gathered that." He replies, not unkindly, but it still seems to cause an ache in her chest.

Lavinia flushes, fiddles the end of her skirt between her fingers, "I'll leave you be. Again, I'm so sorry."

"Now wait a second." He quickly says, reaching forward to grab hold of her wrist. "Can't let a pretty girl like you run off without a name first, can I?"

"Oh." Lavinia feels her cheeks heat, but whether that's from embarrassment or his words, she can't decide. "Er... Lavinia Vinke."

"Elio Discroll." He tells her, manoeuvring his hand to shake her own, "What a pleasure to meet such a pretty girl."

And then she wonders if she's in her own personal hell. If the devil has taken the time to craft figurines into his flames and spit out this in the ashes. He looks all too close to Harry but stands too tall and proud, smug looks towards a friend standing beside them and a confidence she's never seen on Harry. She thinks this would be Harry if he wore a mask as fake and faulty as her own. This thought both unnerves her, and seems to carve it's way into her heart for an echo of longing. If Harry were like this, she thinks they could take over the world and burn it to the ground. Nothing but ash and ruins, and the echo of terrified screams and then she wishes they could rule the world. To make those pay for the things they have done ( though, she supposes she does that already ) and to make them rot into the corpse they deserve to be. But she knows that Harry wouldn't be able to fulfill those shoes and that disappointment settles over that longing. Harry wouldn't do it, but she would.